The Crowds Of Crowds

Of another day of godless beauty- of waking to
The estranged love- We can hardly even speak together,
And she is married,
But how she loves me: talent less, like that-
And I can’t hardly look at myself in the mirror:
The fires run, my dog has fleas:
The traffic rushes forward, and then it rushes home.
The road is not yellow, but the road is everywhere
Attributing to the arbitraries-
And I remember who I loved, and how she went away-
Now my muse is Mexican: she has two children,
And I’ve kissed her mouth in the zoo:
Now I can hardly even spell, but I’ll be up again-
As the fires blaze blinding the dreams of the better
And I’ll touch her brown skin like a monarch butterfly
Discovering a fire to die in- and it will spread all around
Me, and the crowds of crowds will make good money
Off that most flammable tourism.

by Robert Rorabeck

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